


Hotwiring

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Applied Phlebotinum, Eye Surgery, For Science!, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, Saving the World, Size Difference, Sticky Sex, with sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Omega Lock destroyed, the last of The Thirteen makes a desperate gamble to revive his homeworld.</p>
<p>Or, in which Alpha Trion and Shockwave end up fucking to save Cybertron. With science.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotwiring

**Author's Note:**

> Repost of one of my more WTF-inducing fills from the kinkmeme, for [this request](http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/11776.html?thread=13169408#t13169408), which asked for 60-billion year old Prime-verse Alpha Trion finally losing his virginity. I took this as license to write my main crack pairing for this verse and fix-it fic for my most loathed of S2 MacGuffins/Plot Devices. What resulted was half kinky sex and half sketchy science BS about internal combustion engines. Kindly ignore my fail-humor in titling this thing. Enjoy.

By the time Alpha Trion reached the site of the Omega Lock, the mechanism was already destroyed.

The battlefield was empty, but he could read the signs of the conflict, footprints in the rusty silt, marks of blaster fire, and the Lock itself, cleaved by what could only be Prima’s Saber.

_Would you be grieved, brother, to see that your precious sword is now the instrument of our world’s destruction?_

Trion sat on the edge of the shattered Lock for a long time, watching the light change in the rust-choked air as he had not done since entombing himself among his precious archives to await the day when Optimus might fulfill the potential that Trion saw in him. Might bring their world to life once more.

_And now all that is for naught. Cybertron is doomed, and by the hand of the last Prime no less. You must have been truly desperate, Orion, to sentence us to extinction._

The wind kicked up, throwing a coat of fresh rust across his plating and tickling his vents. Trion didn’t bother to pull his cloak further around him.

_Nothing but a rusted pile of scrap, damn you. Would I were a few hundred millennia younger. Not that it would have mattered._

If even Optimus Prime had washed his hands of Cybertron, who was Alpha Trion to argue?

_Who are you?_ And the voice was not the whisper of doubt which crept in as he waited out the endless cycles, organizing the pads and cylinders like some long dead ruler sorting through his burial treasures. No, this was Solus, sweet and beloved, or perhaps Prima, warm and protective. _You are Alpha Trion, last of the Thirteen, guardian of Cybertron. You were not chosen as a Prime, you were forged as one._

_You know what must be done._

Trion ran his hand along the edge of the Lock itself, observing the twisted remnants of the Keys still within it, following the knotted, blackened wires to where they plunged, down and down and down, into the heart of the planet.

He sighed.

\--

Shockwave’s first awareness was of pain, the searing agony of a shattered optic and the dull ache of dents and pinched wires. Damage reports scrolled frantically across his processor. His body jerked in involuntary spasm and he found himself trapped.

“Lie still,” said a voice somewhere above him. “You’re buried under some girders. I’ll have you out soon.”

The voice was unfamiliar, but Shockwave obeyed, though he began to quietly power up his blaster. Unfamiliar could mean Autobot and while they were not known for their habit of shooting prisoners, an enemy soldier might make an exception for one of Megatron’s chief officers.

His rescuer grunted and the crushing weight lifted off him. Shockwave had already run a handful of split second calculations and had his blaster up, pointed to where the other bot was most likely to be.

There was a pregnant pause.

“Oh, it’s you,” the bot said wearily. “Perhaps you could put that away?”

“If you identify yourself I may consider it.”

“Just an old ghost of Iacon, wandering from his moldering tomes.”

“Alpha Trion.”

“The same.”

“What are your intentions?”

“Funny you should ask,” Trion said dryly. “Perhaps we could see about getting you repaired first.”

“I fail to see the logic. Why would you offer to repair me?”

“Because, Chief Science Officer, I need your help.”

\--

In the end Shockwave acquiesced and Alpha Trion lifted him from the nest of girders with surprising ease and bore him away. Shockwave cast his scanners about as they moved over the landscape, trying not to reveal his discomfort at his lack of visual input.

“We are heading for your lab,” said Trion after several moments. “I assume you possess the necessary parts for your repairs?”

“Indeed.”

After a time, the crunch of debris beneath Alpha Trion’s feet changed to the clang of metal on metal. Trion turned northward and began to ascend a ramp.

“You have not informed me of this assistance you require.”

“Wiser to speak of such things when you are safely anesthetized.”

Shockwave did not reply, but he allowed the mechanisms of his blaster to cycle on with a high whine.

“Just my luck, no optics and no sense of humor to boot. Somewhere my brothers are laughing at me.”

“I was unaware you were part of a collective batch.”

Alpha Trion laughed harshly, “A very small, very exclusive batch. Ah, we’ve arrived.” Shockwave was adjusted against Trion’s chassis as the bigger mech reached out to prod the doors of Shockwave’s lab. “You didn’t install an optic scanner did you?”

“There is a keypad.”

Trion hummed in acknowledgement and then Shockwave heard a crumpling sound. The doors hissed and slid apart. “I hope the workmanship on your tools is better.”

“Never doubt, Alpha Trion, I am perfectly capable of repairing myself.”

Trion stepped through the doors and laid him on a table. “Be careful, Shockwave, that almost sounded like an emotional response.”

Shockwave ignored him. “Spare optic components are on the far side of the central bench, third drawer down. Repair tools are in the one above.”

Trion’s energy field damped as he moved away to gather the supplies. Shockwave utilized the moment of peace to take stock of his components. His self-repair was busily working away, reestablishing circuit connections and making fine scale mends, but the larger dents, one of which was pinching several wires quite painfully, would require external assistance.

“Here we go,” said Trion. “Correct size and shade. You certain you don’t want another color? Maybe a nice sunny yellow?”

“Red is regulation.”

“How droll.” Trion moved back to the operating table. “Are you going to blast me if I touch you?”

“Assistance will expedite the repair process.”

“Most bots just say ‘please’.”

Shockwave tilted his head backwards, aligning it to provide the clearest view of his damaged optic. Trion’s hand slid around him, long fingers cupping his helm. Trion’s energy field bumped against Shockwave’s antennae, activating sensors and he suppressed a twitch.

“All is well,” Trion soothed, and then long, clawed fingers delved with surprising delicacy into the ruin of his face. There was a long moment of invasive discomfort as Trion felt for the stem of the lamp and withdrew the shattered optic.

“Cutting the connection,” said Trion. The snip of wire cutters and then the damaged circuits went quiet, no longer sending broken signals to Shockwave’s processor.

Shockwave cycled his ventilation fans once, “The replacement should have sufficient wire to form the graft. If the stretch is insufficient, you can—”

“Calm yourself, Chief Science Officer,” Trion said. “This is not the first time I’ve performed an optic replacement.”

“I did not think the Hall of Records required its employees to have surgical expertise.”

For a long moment, Trion said nothing, merely splicing the wires together with tiny, precise movements. Sparks flashed across Shockwave’s processor as electrical connections were made.

“My brother,” Trion said at last. “Eons ago, there was a great battle, and the side of his face was crushed. My sister was not available, but I had watched her many times. I managed well enough.”

“Why not go to another medic?”

“There were none,” said Trion, in a tone which indicated the conversation was closed. Shockwave did not press, but curiosity pricked him. The last great battle before the War had been the conflict with the Quintessons, and while Alpha Trion was easily old enough to have taken part, the idea that there would have been no medics was absurd.

Pain flared briefly and his processor began to scroll with code, rebooting and calibrating the newly attached optic lamp. Visual input returned and with it the image of Alpha Trion’s, rather ostentatious if Shockwave was forced to opine on such trivial matters, facial fins. Blue optics blinked down at him.

For a long moment neither said a word.

“The dent puller is in the bottom drawer on the third bench.”

“Such a sweet talker, my sister would have loved you.”

\--

“Enough,” said Shockwave, ruthlessly suppressing a wince as another large dent popped out under Alpha Trion’s attentions and a rush of tingling sensation from wires suddenly unkinked flooded him. “It is beyond time you revealed your scheme.”

Alpha Trion released the seal of the dent puller and set the tool aside with great deliberation. “What do you know of the Omega Lock?”

Warning signals tripped in Shockwave’s processor. “I deal in facts and formulas, Trion. I have no interest in myths.”

Alpha Trion leveled a look at him, “Did you know that I kept records of all the research queries submitted to my archives? Of the queries, and who submitted them.”

“I briefly considered—but an engine large enough to power a planet’s core? The very idea is preposterous.”

“Not so preposterous, if you adjust the parameters until the engine represents that of an ordinarily proportioned bot, rather than a planetary body.”

Shockwave shakily cycled his vents, “No physical evidence of the Lock was ever uncovered.”

Trion snorted, a rattling noise reminiscent of grinding gears, “Have no fear, Science Officer, there is enough physical evidence now to satisfy even you, more’s the pity.”

“Explain.”

“The Lock was in the process of activation, but it was destroyed.”

“Then all your conjecture about it is for naught.”

“Not exactly,” said Trion. “You of all should know that an engine is a complex structure.”

“Then the Lock…”

“Is only an ignition switch. The crucial mechanisms of the engine remain. They merely require a…jump of sorts to restart the core.”

Trion didn’t need to explain what that would mean: a planetary revival, the electricity and energon flow which were necessary to support more than the handful of bots still scrabbling about on the surface.

Cybertron would become habitable once more.

Shockwave slowly raised himself from the table and stood, his processor already running furious calculations. “Such a task would necessitate a vast quantity of electrical current. Perhaps, given time, I could build an adequate generator, but the amount of energon needed to power it—”

“You misunderstand. I did not seek you out for your specific skill set. We are already in possession of such a generator.”

Alpha Trion was far too tall for Shockwave to look down on, but he allowed his field to pulse with heavy disapproval, “I assure you that the use of sparks to generate electrical power has been proposed before, and all subsequent experiments have proven fruitless. No spark is strong enough to restart a planet.”

“None save that of a Prime.”

“And am I to presume you have Optimus Prime stashed among the folds of your cloak?”

“Optimus may very well prove to be the last Prime, but he was certainly not the first.”

Shockwave’s processor stalled. If Trion was being truthful, and his expression, the minor fluctuations of his energy field indicated that he in all probability was, the implications were staggering. Shockwave was in the presence of a living relic.

Alpha Trion continued as though he had not just admitted to being present at the dawn of their species’ existence, “You are correct to question though. It is not merely the type of spark which is crucial.” He regarded Shockwave with a shrewd expression. “A Prime spark, wired directly into the starting mechanisms, will serve, but only if said spark is in a…heightened state.”

A faint sense of foreboding rippled through Shockwave.

\--

“I have the sense that an appropriate response here might be one of insult.”

Trion barked out a laugh as he strode down the tunnel ahead of Shockwave. “Don’t worry, sweetspark, I may only want you for your body, but I promise to respect you in the morning.” His pace slowed and for a moment he looked pensive, “Though perhaps I should take insult instead. I would have been content to live out my days with only my datapads as companions, but I find it is galling to be rejected. Am I so repellent to you?”

“I do not understand the question. Aesthetically you excite me no more or less than any other bot, but mutual pleasure can be achieved even in the absence of strong attraction.”

“Never mind, I suppose it is only appropriate that my chosen partner would _talk_ like a datapad.” Trion halted up ahead and indicated a mass of thick, bundled wires above their heads, “Here we are. Far down enough that we should bypass the damage done by the Saber.”

“You are certain that these wires lead to the correct place?”

“Positive, now hand me your cutters.”

Shockwave passed over the tool and Alpha Trion stretched, tugging on the bundled wires until he produced some slack, before bringing the cutters to bear. As the jaws cleaved through each heavy wire in turn, Shockwave stepped up to catch the cut end, covering shining metal and insulation with a plug cap. A crude solution, only some of the caps had come from Shockwave’s stores. The others had been scavenged from corpses, resulting in a motley collection of colors and sizes, but Trion, though he had grimaced, assured Shockwave that they would serve.

Thirteen wires, thirteen caps.

Alpha Trion knelt on the floor of the tunnel, spreading out the edges of his cloak as Shockwave crimped the final cap. Five ports on each side of Trion’s chassis spiraled open and he looked at Shockwave expectantly.

With Trion seated, they were nearly of a height, though the tips of Trion’s fins still just topped Shockwave’s own. Shockwave only had to kneel, bracing his gun arm against the ground, in order to attach the wires at the lowest points on Trion’s chassis. Alpha Trion flipped his palms up, exposing the ports on his wrists and Shockwave obliged, before Trion bowed his head.

Shockwave did not need to see the last port to connect it, a hundred or more trials with the Cortical-Psychic Patch saw to that. The final plug socketed in with practiced ease, but he lingered, claws clinking against the shapes of Trion’s fins and facial structure.

“There is one final factor which must be considered.”

“Oh?” Trion’s optics met his. “And what is that?”

“Timing,” said Shockwave, allowing his claws to delve between two delicate plates. Trion twitched under his touch. “I am certain that I do not need to expound upon the dangers should the Lock’s engine decide to…kick back. Your spark and it must be matched in rhythm, and the jump must occur at a precise moment.”

“And how will we know when that moment is?”

“My sensors are already keyed to your spark rhythm. It was a simple matter to produce an algorithm to match it against public records of the rotation of the core’s magnetic field. The program will inform me when it is time.”

Alpha Trion grimaced, “So what you’re saying is that I can’t overload until you say so.”

“Precisely.”

“Kinky, but there may be a practical problem.”

Shockwave gently gripped the wire protruding from Alpha Trion’s helm and used the plug to tilt his head back, “I believe I am beginning to understand you, Trion.”

Partner, not partners.

Trion shuddered in his grasp and his optics dimmed. “After, after Prima,” his voice broke slightly. “I couldn’t, there wasn’t anyone.”

Shockwave released his energy field, allowing it to brush and tease against Alpha Trion’s own. “Do not concern yourself. My knowledge in this area is more than theoretical and I believe my skills are sufficient to ensure the task is pleasant for all involved.”

Trion’s optic ridges rose, “Did you really just say, ‘I’ll make it good for you’?”

Shockwave did not bother to answer. Instead he ran the hand not holding Trion’s helm in place along his lower facial fins, allowing his field to spike erratically, activating sensors at random. Trion’s hands clenched and somewhere a single cooling fan clicked on.

Shockwave took his time, thoroughly exploring the complex shapes of Trion’s shoulder guards until the other mech was trembling, before kneeling. He nudged the bulk of his gun arm between Trion’s legs, encouraging him to part them. After a brief moment of hesitation, Trion obeyed, though his interface panel remained closed.

Shockwave pressed the flat of his blaster against the panel and cycled the weapon on, allowing power to build and bleed off through the failsafes rather than discharging. The weapon heated and began to hum and Trion let out a low noise.

“If you possessed an open port, I would monitor your progress towards overload myself. Lacking that, you must tell me.”

“Not too close,” Trion said, breathless. “But it feels…”

“Yes?”

“Hot, good, like—” Shockwave cycled his weapon higher. “Ah! There, please.”

“Open.”

Trion’s panel slid aside, revealing his array. Lubricant was seeping through the mesh of his seals and charge crawled lazily between spike and valve housing. He made a soft noise of protest as Shockwave withdrew his blaster but pressed eagerly into his hand as Shockwave caressed the spike housing, allowing his claws to catch and pull slightly at the seal.

Trion was panting, a sign that his core temperature had exceeded capacity of his cooling fans. Shockwave hooked his claws into the mesh and pulled it free with a quick, efficient turn of his wrist.

Trion flinched, but his spike was already pressurizing. It slid into Shockwave’s hand, clean silver, slick with lubricant and large and thick enough that his fingers could not span it. He stroked it from base to head and Trion moaned and arched, his hands flexing restlessly.

Such a magnificent piece of equipment might require further investigation; Shockwave’s valve clenched pleasantly at the thought. He gave it a final, appreciative squeeze, wringing another satisfying noise from Trion, before releasing it and circling the valve aperture with lubricant-slick fingers.

“Your proximity?”

“I, I can’t…”

“This is crucial, Trion. Your proximity?”

“Close. Not on the brink, but if you keep—ah!”

Shockwave tightened his grip around Trion’s spike, increasing the pressure just to the point of pain, “You will control yourself, Trion. You must.” 

“Of course, I know, just…just give me a moment.”

Shockwave allowed his blaster to rest on Trion’s leg, gently petting the valve aperture with the flat of his hand. Trion offlined his optics and cycled air through his vents. His temperature cooled infinitesimally and Shockwave slipped two of his claws into the valve, tips pricking at the seal.

Trion’s optics flickered online and Shockwave held his gaze. Observing the most minute facial expressions of his partners, few though they might be, had always been a source of fascination for him. He watched, fixated by the way Trion’s optics brightened as he pressed his claws in harder, the way Trion’s mouth parted when the seal finally gave, the hitch in his ventilation as Shockwave’s fingers slid inside, spreading the tight calipers. 

“Oh,” he said. “That’s,” Shockwave twisted his fingers within the valve, stroking along the anterior wall and Trion’s head lolled back. “I think, I think I want…”

“Up on your knees.”

Shaky, Trion raised himself, shifting his legs apart to allow Shockwave to arrange himself on his back between them. Their movements jostled Shockwave’s hand and Trion groaned.

“Please,” he panted.

But Shockwave was still monitoring the program, quietly running in the subroutines of his processor. “Slowly, Trion,” he said.

Trion let out a frustrated noise, but stilled himself. Shockwave withdrew his hand and allowed his interface panel to retract. His spike pressurized and he fisted it, slicking Trion’s lubricant with his own, arching up to tease the opening of Trion’s valve with the head.

The valve aperture dilated and the tip of Shockwave’s spike slipped briefly inside. “You,” snarled Trion, optics blazing “Are a sadist.”

“I should think that a bot capable of recalling the Quintesson Wars would have a bit more patience.”

Alpha Trion scowled, “Get _on_ with it you glitch-headed slagger.”

Shockwave released his spike and gestured invitingly. “By all means,” he said. “Gently. And have a care for the wires.”

Trion snapped something at him in an ancient and unfamiliar binary dialect. Bracing his hands beside Shockwave’s helm, he began to slide himself down.

Despite his size, Trion’s valve was tight and Shockwave allowed himself a moment to simply revel in the snug, slick feeling of it and to appreciate the expressions on Trion’s face as his calipers cinched around Shockwave’s spike, activating sensory nodes embedded in the valve walls.

“Well, Trion?”

“Full,” Trion’s optics stared blindly, attention turned inward. “Doesn’t hurt, it’s just full.”

“Flattering,” Shockwave said, amused. “But that was not what I was asking.”

“You know perfectly well I’m close you slagging—!” Shockwave thrust upwards and Trion choked but recovered. “If you don’t shut up and frag me I’m going to pull your optic back _out_!”

Shockwave wisely did not answer but stroked Trion’s legs, encouraging. Trion began to rock against him, a steady, pleasurable slide, and Shockwave watched, waiting.

The pace picked up as Trion began to get a sense of what he liked, the precise amount of contact time between spike and valve nodes necessary to create a continuous flow of current, the angle which would stimulate deeply buried sensors, and how to bend until his spike could press and slide along Shockwave’s chassis, leaving trails of lubricant.

In the back of Shockwave’s processor the program pinged, a preliminary warning. Slowly, steadily, Alpha Trion’s spark was beginning to synchronize with the planet’s core.

The thought sparked something within Shockwave, an impulsive, curious hunger. “Tell me,” he said.

Trion gave a miserable groan as he ground down, “Can’t you just shut up for one astrosecond and let me overload?”

“You misunderstand,” he said, struggling to master himself as Trion took him deeply on the next thrust. “How does it feel?”

“It feels like I’ve got a spike jammed up my—”

“Your spark, Trion. How does it feel?”

“It feels,” Trion panted, pistons firing as he labored to raise himself. “It feels like the beginning.” He moaned as he dropped back down, his calipers rippling.

“The beginning,” he gasped out. “That moment, waking up and feeling the others. Twelve sparks, all beating with mine.”

“They changed,” he said. “Over time they diverged, into individual rhythms as we loved and hated and fought and died. But in that moment, lying there on the surface of a world in its becoming, they were all the same.”

The alarm pinged in Shockwave’s processor.

“Now, Trion.”

Trion’s body jerked above him, optics flaring bright as his capacitors tripped in overload. Seizing his opportunity Shockwave gripped the sides of Trion’s pelvic span and began to thrust, forcing the sensors to fire until the valve spasmed and Trion overloaded again and again, a recursive surge that sent charge crackling across the surface of his plating, leaving small scorch marks on Shockwave’s hands.

Shockwave could hardly keep control in the face of so much moving charge and overloaded helplessly, static buzzing in the edges of his visual field. Reeling, he clung to Trion and struggled to regain himself, a process not aided by Trion’s not-insubstantial mass crashing down on him.

Rebooting his processor cleared the static, though a preliminary damage report informed him that Trion had managed to recreate several dents he’d fixed earlier. Shockwave thought the other mech was offline, but then Trion groaned and raised his helm.

For a long, breathless moment they were both quiet, listening, sensors straining…

And then Shockwave heard it. A distant, relentless pulse, a thunderous echo of the one which beat in the chassis pressed to his, where before there had been only silence.

Alpha Trion pressed his helm to Shockwave’s, their helm fins scraping painfully and began to laugh.

\--

“You realize this isn’t necessary. Or particularly logical.”

Shockwave looked up from cleaning gunk and dried lubricant from Trion’s plating, “On the contrary, removal of excess fluids is beneficial to interface function.”

“I see. And what would your master think if he saw you?”

Shockwave slowed his buffing. “It has always been Lord Megatron’s ambition to rule a whole and healthy Cybertron. I do not think my contribution to our planet’s revival constitutes treason. And as for this,” he cocked his head and swiped his bit of mesh across Trion’s valve. The opening contracted slightly in response and Trion shuddered. “Is it not logical to perform maintenance on a valuable asset to Cybertron?”

“You are a strange one, Chief Science Officer.”

“Who knows? That a nominal Autobot Prime and a Decepticon were able to accomplish such a feat may convince Lord Megatron to reconsider his position on peace negotiations, and the utility of a Prime.”

“It might help if you wrote up your findings. It could interest Megatron to know that an Autobot Prime is more effective with…certain Decepticon assistance.”

“I am compiling my research notes as we speak.”

Alpha Trion chuckled, “I trust I’ll be listed as second author?”

“Naturally.”


End file.
